Fatherhood
by hikari-no-tsubasa
Summary: Oneshot, COMPLETED! Erik's thoughts on becoming a father. Rated M for adult themes.


She is asleep.

Her chest moves up and down, the ghost of her chemise reflecting the candlelight like a heavenly corona. She is an angel. She is my angel, my Christine. She is still my Christine.

Her stomach is warm, firm beneath my icy hand. I imagine that she flinches - just a little! - at my icy touch, but perhaps it is only an illusion. She is asleep, after all. Perhaps she is dreaming of... no, I cannot say it! I cannot even think of it, for it is too horrible.

She is still my Christine, my beautiful living wife. Her body is unchanged, still slender, still young. I try to imagine her swollen with child, and although I know that such a day will come, it is still invisible to me. It is not real, it cannot be real, so long as she is young and alive beneath my fingers.

What have I done?

We slept in her room, that night. Though her bed was never intended for two, it served our purposes better than my own coffin would have. She cried. She cried! I had made my Christine cry, and though it was not the first time I had witnessed her tears, it was the worst because I knew that it was Erik, and Erik alone, who had hurt her. She cried... and she screamed... and then she held me, and it was all that I could do to restrain my own tears, for she touched me in places where I had never been touched before.

The small of my back, the breadth of my chest; such mundane regions of this pathetic body had never known human contact. Her hands burned my flesh, and I became a monster. I will not speak of the pain and the fury that followed. I died and was reborn. And then she cried, and I died all over again.

We sleep in her bed tonight, the three of us, though only one of us deserves it. My soul is tainted. I sinned in the instant I was born, a sin that only intensifies with each human life that I touch. As for Christine... my dear Christine, asleep with a smile on her lips... She chose her lot. She is a sinner, too, though unlike myself, she chose her sin. She turned the scorpion; she chose the darkness. I do not pity her.

But this! This little life that throbs within the prison of her body! What sin have _you_ committed, you pitiable thing?

No... this child has not sinned. It is I, it is Erik, who have sinned against the child. I have condemned you, I have killed you, and you are not yet born!

What will you look like, I wonder? Will you be like me? The horrible fusion of my pain and her tears? I pray that you will look like her.

The image of a child leaps into my mind, and I cringe, for he looks as I must have looked as a boy. His complexion is pale, blue veins beating beneath the rice-paper skin. A misshapen hole looms where his nose should have been. And his eyes... Those eyes do not belong to any child.

I could not love him, if he looked like me.

What could I do, with such a child? How many times have I wished that my mother had loved me, had kissed my tortured face? So many times I have wished that she had given me strength, instead of this cursed mask. And yet, would I have anything different to give a child? I could hardly tell him to display his own face with pride, when I myself cannot.

And Christine! I run my fingers through her hair and she stirs. Oh, how I love her! And yet, I have made her cry. I have made her cry and I will make her cry again. She will go to church on Sunday, our little child in tow, and the child will be a bastard in the eyes of the congregation. I do not even have a name to give her! She will remain Daaé, and become a whore, and our child will be a bastard monster.

She sleeps so peacefully, still. The easy rise and fall of her chest finds a rhythm, inspires an impromptu composition that I will not allow myself to write down. I have sinned, and this is my penance. I can do little with this body, with this face. I cannot atone for my sins in the normal fashion. Even through the screen of the confessional, my voice would drive the Bishop mad. I cannot serve the poor their Sunday dinner, for even the homeless would balk at the sight of my face. No, this is my penance, and I must immerse myself in the misery. It is only when I begin to enjoy it that I will allow myself to stop.

Do I go out into the world with them? _Why does your father wear a mask?_ Or do I lock myself away as I always have? _Poor Christine Daaé and her bastard child..._

You do not deserve this life. You deserve... sunshine through your bedroom windows! Leisurely walks through the park on Sunday! A father with a name and a face, and a mother... You deserve a mother like Christine. My dear Christine...

I run a finger down the perfect line of her jaw. She continues to sleep, quiet and serene.

How Christine loved her father! How she still loves him, though he sleeps far below... No, that is not quite accurate. Even Christine's father sleeps closer to the surface than Erik does.

And this child - I rest my corpse's hand upon her still-flat stomach once more - this child deserves a father. A father like... Christine's.

My hand trembles as I reach for my mask, for I do not want her child to see my face. I can fix this. I can make myself a saint. A simple poison... so easy. A dead father is always a perfect one.

I restore the mask to its proper place, and my peripheral vision vanishes. I can see only her, now. To leave Christine... I would have done it, once. And perhaps it is not too late? The Vicomte still waits, perhaps. He does not need to know that the child is not his.

I rise, leaving my angel's side, though I vow to return before the end. I never hoped to live a long and happy life, but to die at her side... Yes, I will die at her side, and be content.

It is more than I deserve.

Just a drop of poison in a glass of red wine - ahh, it is a vice, but if I must leave this world, then I will leave it with a fine vintage lingering on my pathetic lips. I watch the silver liquid swirl into the crimson, never mixing quite completely, never quite becoming one.

But what if the child is... like me? I hesitate, the glass raised halfway to my lips. Do I leave her alone with... with _it_? Do I leave an angel to care for a demon that is no fault of her own?

Christine... In the candlelight, she looks like a child. She looks as though she still has hope, still has a future... as though she has not condemned herself to Erik's private hell.

I set the glass aside. I cannot save my child by making him an orphan.

The child will go to school... As I return to the bed that we share, I allow my imagination to wander. The child will go to school, and even if his face is perfect, the other children will wonder why his father's is not. Why? _Why?_ Children, of course, must always know _why_. I smile beneath my mask, though the expression is hardly inspired by joy.

I have everything that I have always wanted. My Christine is here, beside me. I touch her face, her neck. I allow my terrible hand to linger on her breast, and though she moans softly, it is hardly a scream. Of course, she is asleep.

Our child must not live in the dark. These walls are good enough for me; if Christine will abide them, they are good enough for her. _But not for our child._ Never for our child! Our child must have the best. Whatever is acceptable to the rest of the world... whatever the Vicomte would have purchased for the creature, had it been his... that is what I will buy. I have money, of course. Not nearly enough, oh no... it is never enough, but for this, it will do.

We are a family now, and we must behave as such. Her child must not be ashamed; not of himself, not of his father, and certainly not of his dear, sweet, innocent mother.

We will leave this place, Christine. A child cannot live in perpetual night. Erik can hardly live in perpetual day, but what does that matter? I hate myself. I love you, but I hate myself and I hate the child, for he represents your tears. We are creatures of the dark, after all. I will not cast another soul into this darkness.

I have money. I can buy a home for us, on the surface. "Christine..." I whisper her name aloud, and she turns toward my voice, as though her eyes could see beyond their lids, still tightly closed in sleep.

In this instant, I can see our home. It is lovely. She is a respected wife; I am a musician, an architect, and a citizen. Our children are... children, beautiful in their freedom. They are perfect, and I am perfect. And I love them.

My hand returns to the mask. Little one, would you like to see your _true_ father? A laugh escapes my throat as I fling the mask aside and press my face against my dear wife's stomach. Her chemise is like sandpaper on my skin, for her hands - and the mask - are the only things that have ever touched my face before. It burns, and it soothes. It shelters, and it exposes.

In this instant, I am a father.

And then she stirs. She speaks my name; I run my fingers through her hair. She tells me that I need not wear my mask, but I seek it out among the folds of the coverlet. It would be cruel not to.

I am a pestilence upon this world, and every human contact that I have is a sin. Christine is my greatest sin of all, for I have made her cry. I have ruined her life by creating a new one. And I have ruined the new life as well.

She is thirsty. I give her water, always, when she wakes. Alcohol is not good for the baby.

I take up the wine glass, and press it into her trembling hand. Her eyes are wide with fear, but I comfort her, and she nods solemnly. She does not doubt the words of her angel. She drinks.

It is not yet morning, and I slip my cursed body beneath the comforter, allowing myself to taste her warmth for one last time. She kisses me, and I kiss her back. I feel her hand, tracing a pattern down my chest, across my sunken belly, to the painfully beautiful Eden that lies beyond. I close my eyes, and surrender to the beautiful agony.

The poison will not act immediately. There is still time.

I die and am reborn inside of her, and when the fire fades at last into beautiful coals, her eyes are still open, though her skin has grown cold.

Dead fathers are always perfect. Dead mothers are always saints. Dead children are always angels. And we are a family at last.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** A big thanks to Gondolier for beta-reading this story! Um... that's about it, I think the fic speaks for itself. I don't usually write one-shots, so I'm eager to know what you all think. Constructive criticism is very welcome. Thank you for reading!  



End file.
